


Heartbeats

by Etheostoma



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Angsty Javert, Established Relationship, Is this modern day or is it canon, M/M, Post-Seine, The World Will Never Know, early morning cuddles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-21
Updated: 2020-08-21
Packaged: 2021-03-07 03:01:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26029858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Etheostoma/pseuds/Etheostoma
Summary: Jean Valjean cherishes moments like these, tucked beneath warm covers with his most improbable bedmate nestled against his side. He feels content, cherished, settled—gifts he once could never have dreamed he might receive.He stretches slightly, feels the body beside his own flex and stir in return, and turns to press himself closer to his partner, lips ghosting along the whiskery curve of his jaw.
Relationships: Javert & Jean Valjean, Javert/Jean Valjean
Comments: 8
Kudos: 53





	Heartbeats

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes, you just want a few thousand words of sleepy, over-exhausted Javert with a dash of fluffy angst.
> 
> That's it, that's the fic.
> 
> First time writing for the fandom, so kudos and comments are always appreciated!

It is one of those rare mornings when everything is utterly and unexpectedly still, the usual flutter and fervor of routine staunched and stuttered by a muted sleepiness. There is only the barest whisper of dawn peeping through the cracks in the curtains, the world outside only just beginning to stir as grey clouds give way to vivid pink and orange sky. Jean Valjean cherishes moments like these, tucked beneath warm covers with his most improbable bedmate nestled against his side. He feels content, cherished, _settled—_ gifts he once could never have dreamed he might receive.

He stretches slightly, feels the body beside his own flex and stir in return, and turns to press himself closer to his partner. “Have you ever considered retiring, my love?” Valjean murmurs into the nape of Javert’s neck, as he tucks himself closer to the slumbering inspector. “You are of an age, and have more than earned your pension.” His eyes glint in the early morning light. “And, I fear for your safety, working patrols late into the night beyond the point of all exhaustion."

Though his initial question is light and teasing, the following words are nevertheless undercut by a touch of agitation that prickles and smarts against the otherwise peaceful lull of the morning. Valjean sighs softly as he cards a hand through the long strands of Javert’s greying hair. “You work longer hours than most men half your age,” he muses sadly, a slight frown furrowing his venerable brow. While he would never dream to begrudge the man his purpose, he still experiences a lingering ache in his chest as he watched Javert stride from the apartment each day, left alone to his thoughts and hobbies and worries as his inspector steps forth to challenge the world.

His free hand snakes around broad shoulders to splay against Javert’s chest, the beat of the other man’s heart strong a soothing, steady cadence against Jean’s palm. He takes a deep breath in tandem with the slumbering policeman, thumb tracing the crease of his thin shirt.

Still gripped in the jaws of sleep, Javert mumbles something indecipherable and sighs, burying his head deeper into his pillow and exposing the irresistibly smooth hollow of his throat to Jean’s lips. The harsh lines of his face are softened by the trickle of warm sunlight just beginning to peep over the windowsill, careworn creases and newly-born crow’s feet conceived in smiles smoothed alike by the sun’s golden caress.

Valjean cannot help but draw a gentle thumb along the curve of his cheek with a fond smile.

It has been far too long since Javert has allowed himself to rest like this, since he has allowed himself any sort of reprieve from the long, grueling hours that he has taken it upon himself to work at the precinct since his recovery. Keeping with tradition, he has thrown himself back into his work with gusto, pushing himself beyond reasonable limit to make reparations for the man he once was.

No matter how many true criminals he puts behind bars, no matter how many countless others innocent in morals that he now allows to walk free, Javert is constantly dogged by the phantoms of his past willful blindness.

It does not matter that Jean tells him otherwise, that he could not be prouder of the man Javert has become. Javert sees only what Javert wants to see, turning inward now in the opposite direction, and focuses with a dogged resiliency on bringing true justice to the streets of Paris.

Jean can count on a single hand the number of face-to-face conversations, let alone moments _together_ , that they have had in the last month.

It seems another cruel twist of Fate’s noose, to be given such a gift as Javert’s love and companionship only to have it now dangle ever so barely beyond reach.

Awaking in earnest, Javert tilts his face into his partner’s palm, tickling the thick calluses at the base of Valjean’s fingers with his lips as he exhales. “I’ll retire when I’m dead,” he finally mumbles in answer to the question that has long since passed. He can feel Jean’s sigh against his side as the other man’s chest contracts, a deep whuff of air ghosting across his face and ruffling his sideburns.

“If you keep this up,” the older man chastises, tracing Javert’s lips idly with one fingertip, “that may not be long. You are up before the sun every day, you work long after it sets, and those hours you are home all you have the energy to do is eat and collapse into bed.” That majestic white head dips down to brush a kiss across Javert’s jaw. “It would be nice to see you _awake_ longer than an hour, or have a conversation, or,” and here his other hand lightly squeezes Javert’s shoulder, “perhaps collapse into bed for a slightly _different_ reason.”

Javert flinches, guilt chasing away the remnants of sleep and creasing his brow, and he retreats back into his nest of pillows, contorting his body to twist and burrow into the linens, burying his face in the sheets in a desperate attempt to mask the shame that sweeps through him at Valjean’s words.

The birdsong outside the window is suddenly stifled, the early morning world outside muted as Javert’s reality blurs, beaten down and overwhelmed by an onslaught of sudden regret.

Jean is right, of course. Javert, so consumed by his job once again, has allowed their fledgling relationship to slip to the side, eclipsed by his conviction that he must turn his attention to righting as many wrongs as he might be able to find.

How quickly a moment of peace turns to one of regret. Javert winces visibly, struggling in Valjean’s arms until he is even further entangled in the linens, his breaths becoming rapid and shallow.

“I—“ he can barely choke out the words as his mind stumbles and staggers and catches up, agonizingly slow, to the reality that he has allowed the most precious thing in his life—the most tenuous and tender and absolutely unbelievable thing—fall so into neglect. _Failure,_ his mind hisses, ever acrid in its debasement and derision of himself, _again and again and again._ Oh, he has turned on to the path of _true_ justice at his job, but at home? Hardly, if the waves of loneliness and worry and regret all but radiating from Valjean are any indication.

Javert flinches back, fingers twisting in their comforter.

Face crumpling, Jean scoops him up into his arms and presses his nose to his throat, murmuring nonsense as he strokes a hand down Javert’s back. “Oh Javert,” he murmurs, “I didn’t mean it as an accusation.” His hazel eyes are wide and warm as he tips his face up to meet Javert’s gaze. “Simply an observation, and a selfish wish.”

“Bah,” Javert grunts, mortified to discover water gathering at the corners of his eyes. He _has_ been overdoing it, _has_ been working day in and day out, and at what cost—the peace of mind of the only individual whom he has ever loved?

No career or reparations are worth such a cost—especially not when it has taken them over half of a lifetime already to find each other in this way.

“It,” he begins thickly, and pauses to clear his throat, arms sliding to curl around the other man’s still-broad chest, “That is…you know I lose myself quickly on a path I believe to be correct. In this, I…I believe I may be using my job as an escape.” Long fingers clench, gather Jean’s nightshirt into their grasp and twist the thin cotton in knots. “Not from you,” he hastens to add, quickly intercepting the hurt forming in Valjean’s eyes before it has time to reach maturity, “but I have done wrong by so many, by _you_ especially, that to allow any further abuses of the law to pass unanswered is yet another unforgivable wrong.” He wets his lips, tilting his head down to brush a featherlight kiss across Jean’s brow. “Working on _those_ keeps me from focusing on all the times I could not—did not—step in to bring about a necessary change.”

Blatant but unstated is the implication that even now he feels undeserving of the other man’s affection, that his continued absence allows Jean to live his life unburdened by Javert and their shared pasts. Silent are his countless fears, his numerous worries and anxieties and fevered, furious regrets that he might have changed the entire course of their lives had he experienced his epiphany sooner, that perhaps that dear, beloved soul before him might not have suffered so greatly or for such a prolonged duration if he, Javert, had simply _been a better man._

Laughing hoarsely, a coarse, grating sound that echoes oddly throughout the room, Javert hides his face against the open collar of Jean’s shirt, shame coloring his cheeks and barely-visible collarbone. “In this, as in everything, I fail you once more.”

He cannot give voice to the thought, ever-present, that perhaps the world would have been much improved had he attempted to settle his score with God long before that never-ending night the previous June.

Springs creak as Jean flips them, lightning-quick, pressing Javert’s back into the mattress and bracketing his hips with his knees. The inspector’s hands Jean clasps between their chests, leaning forward until they are nose-to-nose, green-hazel eyes locked onto stormy blue.

“Javert,” and the combination of exasperation, affection, amusement, and raw _love_ mixed into Valjean’s mild tenor is staggering. “You are not a burden. You owe me _nothing_. Whatever debt you imagine to have existed is long since paid, to society as well as to myself—and you owe no debt to the Lord.” His long black lashes flutter closed, forehead slanting and sliding down to rest against Javert’s. “Continue to work, certainly, for goodness knows I cannot ask you to step away from it, but perhaps remember that you _do_ have a life and identity outside of it?” He drops one hand to catch the other between both of his, drawing his thumb across Javert’s knuckles. “Constantly running yourself ragged pursuing too many cases is not healthy, for you or anyone.”

Pink lips brush across those captive knuckles, dragging a feather-light caress across the breadth of Javert’s broad hand. “You aren’t _alone_ anymore.” And, again, Jean’s earnest eyes stare determinedly into Javert’s own wide gaze. “It’s not you against the world, or even you against anyone or any _thing_.” He leans down, brushes his lips against Javert’s—too soft to even really be considered a kiss beyond the most basic of definitions—and lets his body relax so that they are pressed chest-to-chest.

Valjean’s weight against him is grounding in a way Javert cannot explain, a sturdy, heavy comfort all on its own that supersedes words or wisdom. He groans, low in his throat, and wraps his arms around those broad shoulders. “You are correct, of course,” he mumbles, “in this as with everything else.” He laughs again, but this time the sound is one of shaky disbelief—even now, he can hardly bring his mind to bear upon the idea that his affections and desires are returned, that he is worthy of such kindnesses after the life he has lived and the misfortunes that he has delivered.

Snorting, Valjean smoothes a wave of stray hairs from Javert’s brow. “I am hardly one to deserve such a compliment.” Slipping sideways against the mattress, he gathers Javert close, tucking the taller man’s head beneath his chin and twining their legs together beneath the sheets, clutching him as a child might cradle a beloved toy. “But, I am honored to receive it.”

One broad hand sweeps across Javert’s back in wide, soothing passes, running from hip to shoulder in a diagonal caress. “You need to take care of yourself, Javert,” he murmurs, “at least some of the time.” A slight pout, softened by the hint of a fond smile, tugs at his lower lip, and Javert is powerless to resist the urge to chase it with a kiss.

“I will,” he concedes against Valjean’s mouth, their breath mingling, “if only to keep you from worrying so.” His expression softens, grows serious. There were no words to encompass the sanctity of these moments, and he can never even bring himself to try. He knows it has been too long since he has allowed himself to rest, too long since he has allowed himself the sanctity and safety of Valjean’s cherished arms. “And,” he huffs, words muffled as he tucks his face once more against Valjean’s neck, “I am sorry.”

The words are soft, barely audible. Javert’s long fingers clench in Valjean’s shirt, slip up and under to curl about his waist, flesh to flesh. Valjean’s skin is warm beneath his palm, his muscles twitching away from the cold press of Javert’s hand. Questing fingers slide up across Jean’s broad back, tracing smooth scars and rough divots, finally curling up and around his front to press against his sternum.

He plasters himself to the other man, hand sandwiched awkwardly between them as he breathes in with the gentle thrum of Valjean's heart. The position is distinctly uncomfortable for him, but the older man's smile and soft sigh of contentment, the subtle sag of his body as it finally relaxes in earnest, are well worth the pins and needles shooting through his arm.

Javert is far from perfect. He may be forever mired in his personal doubts and shortcomings, may be denied the satisfying absolution of his lingering guilt, but this—

—this he will protect.


End file.
